With an exasperated sigh, I remind him, “Joe, I just walked in the door. I’ve been driving the last six hours—”
“I’ll drive,” he says, as if it’s that simple. “Dad’s waiting at the hospital for us.” He breaks into a sunny grin. “It’s good to have you home.”
He makes it so difficultfor me, and I find myself falling into the same pissy attitude I adopted in my teen years, designed to keep him at bay. “Yeah well, I’m not home two seconds before you’re dragging me out again. I haven’t even brought my stuff in—”
“I got it for you,” Joey tells me. “You just have the one suitcase? I put it upstairs in our room.”